


An Unexpected Date

by tigbit



Series: Unexpected Universe [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: A Distinct Lack of Plot, Alpha Ben Solo, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Banter, Ben Loves Rey's Tits, But they feel a little married, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Edging, Established Relationship, F/M, First Dates, Fluff and Humor, Omega Rey (Star Wars), they're not married, tit worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-12-31 07:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigbit/pseuds/tigbit
Summary: “Personally, I think even using the word ‘doom’ qualifies as dramatic.”“You don’t understand,” she protested. “This dinner has become athing. Like a relationship-defining thing. If it were alive, it’d be breathing. It’d have legs and a central nervous system and probably a sense of free will. We talked about this dinner before we even left the lab.”“So you’ve mentioned.”--Rey and Ben go on their infamous date.





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re what?” 

Rey didn’t stop plucking; she just angled the tweezers so she could catch Finn’s eye in the mirror. “Doomed.” 

Hers was a bathroom unfit for more than a single breathing body. Finn refused to sit on the closed toilet lid, which only left the shower. He stood in the tub, wasting Ben’s shaving cream on the tiled wall. So far, he’d drawn two sets of dick and balls, a swing set, and an anemic-looking grasshopper. She called it madness; he called it art. 

After making sure she caught the roll of his eyes, Finn turned back to his canvas. “Stop being dramatic.” 

“Do you see me flailing my arms? Am I screeching or stomping my feet? No. I am saying in a very reasonable tone of voice that this date is doomed.” 

Was that a wayward eyebrow hair or a shadow? She threw an angry glare at her only source of light. The bare bulb had broken free of its housing and swayed dramatically by a few cords from the ceiling. When the air conditioning kicked on, she felt like she was on a carnival ride. 

“Personally, I think even _using_ the word ‘doom’ qualifies as dramatic.” 

“You don’t understand,” she protested. “This dinner has become a _thing_. Like a relationship-defining thing. If it were alive, it’d be breathing. It’d have legs and a central nervous system and probably a sense of free will. We talked about this dinner before we even left the lab.” 

“So you’ve mentioned.” 

“And I’ll keep mentioning it until you offer me the consolation I so desperately crave. Here. Check for strays.” She turned away from the mirror, lifting up her chin for Finn’s practiced hand to hold. 

It was odd: when she closed her eyes, she smelled Ben. But it was Finn’s firm touch on her browbone. “Here,” he said, tapping once. “And here. And like…five over here. Damn.” Her eyes opened when his hand dropped. “You really need to fix that light.” 

“Ben insisted he’d do it, but then I insisted it was my apartment and that _I_ should do it. So then he insisted he be here when I tried. He kept citing statistics about electrocution.” 

“Seems like a reasonable fear, given the frayed wires.”

“So I turn off the power,” she dismissed, not knowing if she actually could. Then she turned back to the mirror. “You have your phone on you, don’t you? Come here and hold up your flashlight. Thirty seconds.” 

With a beleaguered sigh, Finn swung a leg over the rim of the tub. She handed him a towel. 

It wasn’t until she dropped the tweezers for the second time that he finally spoke up. “Wow. You really are nervous about this.” 

“I _told_ you.” Her final inspection complete, she reached for her mascara. The one product she felt competent enough to use. “It’s going to be a disaster.” 

Finn lowered his phone, turning off the light and pulling up his messaging app. He spoke as he texted. “I’m going to be honest and say that you’re definitely overreacting. You’ve been together for what, two months? We met up for coffee _yesterday_. I saw him pay for your mocha. On what planet could you possibly consider this your first date?”

Clearly he hadn’t been listening. “I never said this was our first date. I said this was _the_ date.”

“Lord.” His phone clicked off with a soft chirp. “Fine. But I don’t understand why you insist it will be terrible.” 

“Because that’s how these things work,” she said, sounding far more patient than she actually felt. “We’ve talked about it too much and for too long. There’s no way we could possibly meet our own expectations. Something will happen.”

“I need a for instance.” 

“Okay, so take this dress.” She fussed with the single asymmetrical strap, running her thumb along its edge. “I mentioned it the day my heat ended. Literally in the first hour. Ben’s begged and begged to see it and I wasn’t trying to keep it a mystery, exactly, but I was waiting to hem it.”

“And Poe helped you hem it. It looks great. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that according the rules of the universe, I’ll either rip it, stain it, or Ben will be disappointed.” 

A loud, sharp bark of a laugh. “Ben will _not_ be disappointed.”

Probably not. But, “Then it’ll be one of the other two.”

Finn looked like he was trying very, very hard to be a professional friend. “Why, exactly?”

“I already told you. I made it a thing. Like…” she carded through her brain for a suitable memory. “You know how Poe kept telling us about Charlie the Unicorn?” When Finn only blinked at her, she made a noise of victory. “_Exactly._ He went on about that stupid video for hours. There were reenactments. We were camping and there wasn’t reception and he made you pull over as soon as he had a bar because he was absolutely convinced we’d lose our shit. Remember?”

Brow furrowed, Finn paused to think. “Are you talking about the time he threw a Red Bull at the windshield?” 

“Yes! He thought we weren’t laughing on purpose. It _mattered_ to him and because it mattered, we had to go and screw it up.”

“You’re saying your date with Ben is like an ancient YouTube video?” 

“Don’t pretend to be dense when you’re one of the smartest people I know. You understand my point.” 

Finn pinched the bridge of his nose. “I do, but I don’t know any other way to tell you that you’re wrong.” 

Twisting one last time to confirm her bra didn’t show, Rey flicked off the light and padded toward her bedroom. Time to find her shoes. 

Finn followed, flopping down on her bed as she rummaged through her closet. “Would it make you feel better if we ran through a list of worst case scenarios?”

She held up two heels: one black, one red. “Why would that make me feel better?”

“Black. And because I promise that no matter what you say, it’s irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. You guys are stupidly in love. Like almost to an annoying degree. Ben’s not going to give two shits where you go or what you do. He’s not going to care if you rip your dress. He’s not going to care if you set your hair on fire. He’d whine for eight seconds if you set _his_ hair on fire, but then he’d probably thank you for the experience.” 

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you saw how much he spends on haircare.” 

“Rey.”

“Fine. What if the food tastes bad?”

“Then you send it back.”

“What if he bought me a present to commemorate the occasion? I didn’t get him anything.”

“It’s a date, not Christmas. But even if he did, you blow him in the car and call it even. Or fuck him until he forgets his name and overnight a present of your own when he falls asleep. Raw honesty is also a classic move. I doubt he’d care.” 

“What if he pisses me off in the car and we spend the entirety of the dinner glowering over prime rib?”

“_Nothing_ can be worse than the time he beat you in Mario Kart. Steal half his entrée to make yourself feel better and move on.” 

“Don’t buy into the lie that he’s not territorial about his food. He eyed his fork with murderous intent the last time I snatched one of his green beans. Okay, though. What if they’ve lost our reservation?” She’d had a nightmare last night in which Ben attacked the host with a potted plant. Dream Rey had tried to bribe the police officers with the promise of Ben’s sourdough pancakes but just when she made headway, Dream Ben chewed his way through the handcuffs. 

“Then you let Ben ask for the manager and watch as he goes a little alpha. Problem solved. In ten minutes, you’ll be fighting over appetizers.”

Speaking of, “What if one of us chokes on a stuffed mushroom?” 

“Or what if he spills wine on his tie?” The exasperation in Finn’s voice was almost a tangible thing. “What if he orders crab cakes and gets a parsley leaf stuck between his first and second bicuspid? What if the building catches on fire? What if his wine-soaked _tie_ catches on fire and you’re forced to put it out with what remains of your soup?” Tirade finished, he managed to cull the majority of his snark. He only sounded tired when he said, “Do you hear yourself? If I said half of these things about Poe, you’d call me crazy and leave the room.” 

“Excuse me for believing you’d be supportive,” she muttered, hopping as she wriggled her foot into a heel. The closet door groaned on its hinges when she had to grab it for support. 

Finn’s laugh was hollow. “I’d be the shittiest friend in the world if I supported your catastrophizing.”

“_You_ were the one who suggested this exercise. Don’t blame me for following through.”

“Well, now I regret it. I thought it’d help, not make things worse.” 

“I’m not saying whatever happens will be world-endingly unfixable. I’m just saying something will happen,” she said, ever-stubborn. “And it will be awful. And I’m not looking forward to it.” 

She made herself avoid Finn’s eyes as she puttered around the room, eventually ending up at her dresser. She’d thrown out half of her perfumes, not liking how they mixed with Ben’s scent—too overpowering and her omega wanted to whine. But she still liked some of the lighter ones. Rosewater, especially. 

As she reached for the bottle, she realized she hadn’t painted her nails. Did she have time to—no. Probably not. Although it’d be smart to check her phone. Ben could have done them both a favor and sent a last minute can’t-make-it text. He _had_ mentioned something about starting a new project at the lab. Maybe he’d gotten tied up. Accidentally glued his lab coat to Bunsen burner. Or better yet, maybe he realized how much they risked by actually making tonight a reality. 

There was a warm presence at her back. 

“I want you to listen to me.” Finn’s voice was low and honest and sincere. “Good things are allowed to happen, Rey. Good things are allowed to happen to _you_. Just because tonight is special doesn’t mean you’re fucked. You get to be happy. You get to wear a stunning dress and hold the hand of the grumpy guy you love and you get to eat overpriced food without the guilt of wondering if you deserve it. Fortune doesn’t have to be balanced out by tragedy.” 

Rey felt herself tipping into a tide that promised to carry her too far away. So she forced herself to breathe. Measured. Not too shallow. When she managed a whole set and then another, she leaned backward into Finn, welcoming his hug. His arms were strong and familiar. 

“So,” she squeezed his hand with her own, stepping away when he gave a squeeze back. “When can I expect the motivational book tour?”

“That’s a very strange way of saying thank you.” 

She turned so he could see the honesty in her eyes. “Thank you.” 

Apparently convinced that she meant it, Finn nodded. “You’re welcome.” And then, more somber: “I meant it, you know. You guys are going to be fine.”

Rey sighed. She knew that. She believed it. Still, it was hard to say, “You’re right.”

“Besides, you already survived your evening’s first tragedy.”

Halfway across the room to retrieve her phone, Rey paused. Her message light blinked, casting a faint blue light onto her ceiling. Every day, night knocked a little earlier. “What?”

“Seriously?” What had been a small grin grew wider on Finn’s face. “You forgot?”

“Forgot what?”

Far too casually, Finn examined one of her perfume bottles. He turned the glass over in his hands as he spoke. “Huh. With all your fretting, I would have assumed you’d be more on top of things.” 

Something was tickling the back of her brain. A memory. She could only glimpse a piece of it, but the clearer it became, the louder her panic roared. 

“Finn,” she bit out, dangerous, “what did I forget?” 

“To be fair, I only just remembered. But I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Check your phone.” 

She almost threw herself across the bed. In the second before her thumb hit the screen, she saw the flash of a notification. _Ben._

With a sinking sense of dread, she opened her messages. 

“Oh shit.” She sank onto the bed, one hand coming up to cover her face. She read the messages through the gaps of her fingers. “Oh fucking shit.” 

**_5:18: _**_I know we said 6, but feel free to come early and rescue me from this living hell. _

** _5:19: _ ** _Fair warning: I hid all the baby albums I could find, but new ones keep materializing. She pulled the last one out of the liquor cabinet. I suspect foul play._

** _5:35_ ** _The mechanic just called me back. Their bid was outrageous, so I told them to fuck off. I’ll have it towed somewhere else. You still good to drop me off tomorrow? I can’t remember if we said 8 or 9._

**_5:50_**_I see your strategy._

** _5:50:_ ** _Very clever._

** _5:50:_ ** _Though you’ll pay._

** _5:51:_ ** _I feel like an emoji would help clarify that I meant that sexually. Use your imagination._

** _6:03:_ ** _Don’t forget the driveway’s off of Yorke, not Thompson._

** _6:15:_ ** _Missed Call._

**_6:19:_**_Missed Call._

The silence of the room was not the soundtrack the moment deserved. If she possessed the power to float outside of her frozen body, she’d insist on something between Jaws and whatever song Kaydel had played at their last Warhammer session. The one where they defeated the rat-men. Was she facing imminent attack or preparing to unleash it? She couldn’t decide. 

“The last time you looked at me like that,” Finn edged a little closer to the door, “I was picking up broken glassware for a week.”

“Because you _tripped_,” she snarled. 

“Because your eyes were glowing like a she-demon. I saw my own death.”

Her voice fell flat. “You knew I’d been looking forward to eating that cake. There was chocolate and fudge and you were using your _hands_, Finn. Kind of like I want to use my hands to strangle you right fucking now. Why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

“Hey, now.” He held his hands up, defensive. “Did you miss the part where I said I forgot? Also: why are you still here?”

With a despairing, enraged roar, she flew out of the room. 

\--

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

Of course she’d forget. Ben’s car had broken down in the pre-dawn morning, and while she could legitimately argue that he’d changed their evening’s plans when she was too sleepy to understand them, she was equally convinced of her blame. 

As she raced up Leia’s driveway, her mind unhelpfully replayed Ben’s words:

_She’s been blowing up my phone. Insists that you’ve never officially met. If you’re not ready, I can shake her off, but she won’t stop until it happens. What about tonight? I’ll Uber there after work and you can just stop by before dinner. Guaranteed exit strategy._

She’d said yes, of course, because unlike Ben, she didn’t brazenly avoid any mention of his parents. He spoke of Leia rarely and Han even more so—whether because he was keen on suppressing a traumatic childhood or because he had no honest interest, she didn’t know. In all fairness, Ben didn’t make a habit of talking about anyone. He had no friends of his own and seemed unperturbed to admit it. Colleagues were mentioned only in reference to their ineptitude. Poe and Finn made a continual, valiant effort to be welcoming, but it was a slow process. Ben had only just stopped grinding his teeth during game nights. 

She’d been too much of a chicken to call and confess she’d forgotten about Leia’s. Finn had bellowed down the stairwell that he’d take care of it, that she should just drive and concentrate on feeling guilty, and that’s exactly what she’d done. 

Now she was here and running and _why_ did Leia have the longest driveway in existence and why had Rey parked at the very, very end of it? 

There were more cars than she’d expected. She had no idea what Leia or Han drove, but there were at least five vehicles parked along the winding concrete. Some of Leia’s team, maybe? Barely-there allusions had been made to Han’s obsession with racing, though none of the cars seemed especially raceable. At least two of them were more rust than metal. 

_Be strong_, she coached her ankles. _Refuse to wobble._

And then she was there, her hand up and ready to slap at the doorbell only to collide with Ben’s chest. 

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, unable to read the look in his eyes. “This was one hundred percent my fault.”

Ben seemed at the edge of some unknown limit, though his voice was calm. “Finn mentioned the word ‘doom’ at least eighteen times. Why didn’t you say you didn’t want to go out?” 

Huh. She’d figured they’d have this conversation eventually, but standing in his mother’s foyer had not been one of her hypothesized settings. It felt like the sort of talk better suited for darker lighting—a place where they sat near flickering candles on a table or stood under a streetlamp in a parking lot. Somewhere that offered the opportunity to tenderly gaze and confess. Not a place so brightly lit and smelling of cinnamon. 

“I didn’t say that because it wouldn’t be true.”

“So Finn was exaggerating?”

“Not knowing what he said, how could I…” Actually, she could guess. “Probably not? I will admit to a certain degree of worry. But not,” she rushed to say, “because I think _we_ are doomed.” Late as she was, she didn’t feel as if they had time to play Connect the Anxiety Dots, so she waved off a full summary in favor of saying, “It’s fine. I probably broke the curse by being late.” 

Ben looked like he was trying to juggle between fifteen different answers. None of them erased his small frown. “Who cursed us, exactly?”

“The date,” she reminded him, “not us. But fate.” 

“Ah.” 

Rey realized he was holding an empty glass. The ice cubes clinked when he tilted it and Rey tried to convince herself they didn’t sound like a warning. How much had he already had to drink? 

She flicked the glass. “That bad, huh?”

He closed his eyes. “She planned an assault.” 

That explained the excess of cars. “Is that why we’re still standing in the foyer? To avoid assault?”

“I’ve already _been_ assaulted. I’m just…steeling myself for it to continue.” 

Rey shifted on her feet, wondering if she should feel nervous. She checked her watch. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, we can only stay for another ten min—”

“She already changed the reservation.” As soon as he said it, Rey imagined she could hear the grind of Ben’s teeth. He glared at his glass like he could persuade it to refill through sheer force of will. “And the longer I’m here, the more that pisses me off.” 

Rey could…absolutely see Leia changing a reservation if it didn’t suit her plans. The murkier mystery was guessing if she knew how much it would upset her son. 

“I would offer you an illicit blowjob—” she hid a smile when Ben instantly lowered his glass, “—but I think they’re getting impatient.” The low murmur from the adjoining room was slowly transitioning into something more audible. It was no longer difficult to pick out specific words. Leia was saying something about fish. Someone—Han, Rey assumed—kept insisting he had another bottle of single malt in the garage. A third voice laughed unapologetically and said he’d stolen it years ago. 

“By the way, who am I getting ready to meet?” She could guess, but Ben was doing the thing he always did when he started thinking about sex: staring at her neck gland like it might run away if he blinked. Rey wasn’t opposed to a pre-dinner fuck, but she didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of ways it could go wrong in Ben’s childhood home. 

Leia could find them. Han could find them. Whoever was with Han and Leia could find them or _worse_, offer an unwitty comment about joining as a third. They could break something. Clothing could rip or stain or smell decidedly cummy. And even if they weren’t found and her dress survived, they could still be _heard_ and frankly, Rey had met her yearly quota. 

The distraction only partially worked: Ben managed to drag his eyes away, but they were still a deeper shade of brown. “My parents,” he said flatly. “Whoever it was that my mother bribed to cook. Two of her senior aides, though I doubt they’ll speak. Two unofficial uncles.”

She searched her memory. “Chewie and…Lando?”

He nodded. The ice clinked again. 

“Anything I need to know? Wait.” Why did she suddenly have the urge to pat pockets that didn’t exist? “Was I supposed to bring something? Wine? Flowers? I…think I have a skein of alpaca in the car. Any chance your mother crochets?” 

A swatch of someone’s sleeve suddenly peeked into view from the hallway. Ben must have seen the dart of her eyes: he twisted around to confirm for himself, then groaned. 

“Time’s up,” he said bitterly. “And no. It’s whiskey or bust, my mother’s never met something green she can’t kill, and you’re better off knitting yourself a sock.”

Rey tilted her head. “How did you know I was planning on making a sock?”

“The number of open Ravelry tabs on your laptop is obscene.”

“Are you jealous? Because I—”

“Ben?” One of Leia’s hands snuck around the curve of the wall, tapping on the wallpaper to get their attention. “Ask Rey if she wants something to drink.” 

Ben’s deep breath looked like the beginning of a spell designed to summon patience. “Ready?” he gritted, and cupped her elbow before she finished her nod. 

\--

Han poured a mean whiskey. 

Or, Rey reflected, perhaps it was fairer to say that Han poured mean whiskies, as she could no longer recall if she was on her second or third. He had an uncanny ability to refill her glass at unpredictable, unpreventable moments. The best warning was not the glass itself, but Ben: whether it was because Han was an alpha, his father, or some combination of the two, he tended to press himself closer to Rey whenever the older man walked near. Ridiculous, but not a fight currently worth fighting. 

She didn’t feel observably drunk, but sobriety had definitely waved its goodbyes. Standing up would give her a better sense of how far down the path of drunkenness she’d truly traveled, though she’d have to time it well: there was no way she’d risk wobbling in front of Leia. 

Taking the smallest of sips, she took stock of the living room. 

Someone—she didn’t know if it was Han or Leia—was clearly a packrat. For every potted plant or stocky floor lamp, there was a stack of _something_ hiding behind it. Magazines. A woven basket full of knick-knacks. Unmarked boxes. The walls were mercilessly full, every inch cluttered with proof of extensive, worldwide travel: framed postcards or newsprint of Leia behind foreign-looking podiums, unsmiling pictures of a younger Ben in front of landmarks Rey recognized from TV, kitschy things bought in tourist traps. 

There was no discernible rhyme or reason to an object’s placement. Very official-looking documents butted shoulders with Ben’s high school report card which almost overlapped signed vinyl records which crowned pictures of Han perched on a battered race car. Some of what she saw looked pristine—dusted and buffed to perfection—and some seemed worryingly aged. There were bright colors and muted plaids, metal and wood, things of texture and smooth gloss. 

It was homey, so soaked with memories and obvious use that Rey couldn’t help but find it comforting. Maybe she’d have a room like this, one day. Maybe she’d live a life worth recording on walls, a thousand stories sitting in plain sight. 

Asking questions wasn’t difficult, and Leia seemed happy to answer them, wandering around the room with a soft smile as she poked at one thing or another. 

Some stories were short (_A friend of ours is an artist_), some were deferred to Han (_Luckiest pair of dice I’ve ever owned_), and some were deflected by Ben, who had a way of deliberately misinterpreting her questions. When she pointed to a sword, he asked if she’d already looked at the restaurant’s menu. When she pointed at the sword _again_, he got up to refill his drink. 

(_Anakin Skywalker_ read the plaque, and Rey made her own assumptions.)

The longer she sat, the more content she felt. Lando and Chewie had already left, only staying long enough to say hello and offer open invitations to their country club and auto shop, respectively. The whiskey was a warm bath in her veins and the hors d'oeuvres were delicious. Sitting on the worn leather of the couch, Rey felt far removed from the person she’d been in her bathroom. What could touch them here? It felt like a house that had weathered far worse storms than a long-planned date. 

Though it did remind her of a question she’d never asked. 

She had to tap him on the shoulder, but Ben finally turned his head. “Hey,” she whispered, because Han was still reminiscing about swindling a prince (“A _regent_,” Leia kept correcting). “What time is dinner?”

“Nine.” His voice was flat. 

“Nine?” It felt rude to check her phone, but, “That feels a little…I—how far away is that?” 

Tone unchanged: “Too long.” 

With a quick glance to confirm that Han and Leia were now mildly bickering (“I _shot first! Me!_”), she took a closer look at Ben. 

As tense as he’d seemed in the foyer, he had weathered the evening with a surprising amount of grace. Seemingly innocuous comments from Leia or Han tightened his shoulders, but he hadn’t guzzled whiskey and he hadn’t glared with murderous intent. Which was progress, Rey figured, given how he once growled when Poe asked what he was doing with Han for Father’s Day.

He did seem…stretched, though. More eager to look at his watch than anything else in the room. Irritated, if she had to guess, by the disruption of their original plans. She should—

“Ben tells me you two are planning a trip to the northeast?”

Rey tried to not to look startled. How did Leia move that quickly? “Yes. Well, it’s the goal. Depends if I can get the time off work.”

Ben left the couch, stalked toward his father’s whiskey, and stared at the bottle. 

Leia soon blocked Rey’s view by settling on the coffee table, a cup of tea steaming in her hand. “Have you ever been?”

“No,” she shook her head, still distracted by Ben. He wasn’t moving. “But my friends went hiking through Acadia last year and haven’t shut up about it since. Seems gorgeous.” 

Leia nodded her agreement. “We have a summer home in Cape Elizabeth. A little dated, I’m sure, but oceanfront. You’re welcome to it. When were you thinking of traveling?” 

“Possibly October? Ben said it depended on his project.” 

It depended on her heat, truth be told. If her body could be trusted to stay on schedule, the next would come in early October. Ben’s first rut had been so blazingly public; they’d decided the next should be as private as possible, and she’d always wanted to see Maine in the fall. She was also more than a little excited to see Ben hike in plaid. Because she would insist he hike in plaid. 

“October?” A small frown. “You’ll miss the Strawberry Festival, then. Ben always loved going as a child. But they’ll still have a wonderful open market. And we have friends who would love to show you around.” She twisted. “Han? Bring me the blue album.”

Something clattered. Ben had set down his glass a little too forcefully. “That house is three hours from Acadia.” 

“Take the Falcon,” Han spoke up. “Get you there in two.” 

“It makes more sense to stay in Bar Harbor,” Ben gritted. “And since when is there room for luggage in the Falcon?”

Han paused halfway across the room, the requested delivery dangling from his free hand. The curve of his frown was indignant. “Your mother and I took plenty of trips in the Falcon. You bring a suitcase, not a closet.”

Ben’s jaw rolled.

“You wouldn’t have to pack much,” Leia said to Rey. “The house has anything you’d need. Threepio’s a dear friend and lives nearby. He’d be happy to stock the fridge if I called. He already keeps an eye on the place. Ah,” she eagerly accepted the album, immediately flipping through its pages. “Thank you.” And then to Rey: “What do you think?”

Stunning was too mild of a word. The pictures were poorly taken—most of them smudged with the blur of someone’s inexpert finger in the frame—but there was no denying the beauty of the house. Or its size. Rey leaned closer. Was that a _tennis court_? 

“I’ve already looked at rentals.” Ben’s voice made Rey glance up. It seemed…hard. But brittle, too. Like his tongue had encased the words in ice. 

Leia seemed unconcerned. “Why waste the money? Besides, the house could use some life. Invite your friends.” She directed the last comment to Rey, who couldn’t decide what to do with her mouth. How did one smile noncommittedly? “Not as romantic, I’m sure, but they could stay in the guest house. I think we kept a van in the garage. You’d be welcome to use it.” 

It wasn’t hard to guess the Solos were well-off, but Rey was starting to doubt she could truly fathom the depth of their wealth. Was _this_ what Ben was used to? Multi-million dollar summer homes and spare cars and phone calls that stocked pantries states away? 

She thought of her bathroom and the exposed, ugly wire. 

Leia was looking at her. Ben, too. Both awaiting a response. Delicately, her gaze flicking between mother and son, Rey said, “It’s such a kind offer, but you shouldn’t feel obligated to go to all the trouble. I wouldn’t want—”

“Nonsense.” Leia waved the rest of her sentence away. “You’d be doing me a favor.” 

“We’re not staying there.” Ben hadn’t growled the words, but it was a near thing. “If you’re that worried about the house, visit yourself.” 

Rey caught the roll of Leia’s eyes before she shuttered them. “It’s an offer, not an obligation. And you are one half of a partnership. Why don’t you ask Rey what she wants?”

Even a beta would be able to smell the rising tide of alpha diffusing throughout the room. The only person who looked even remotely comfortable was Han. His hands were busy with a deck of cards, shuffling them faster and faster until the numbers blurred. 

As the only omega, it was hard not to cringe. Invisible glue coated her tongue, but her eyes had no trouble pinging back and forth. 

“Because I already know what she wants.” That time, Ben really did growl. “And I know what she wants because she _told_ me what she wants, and it’s not in Cape Elizabeth.” 

“Who’s saying you can’t go hiking?” 

“_Geography_.” 

Leia scoffed. “There are plenty of places to hike near Portland.”

“Is one of those places called Acadia?”

“Benjamin.” A warning. 

“She won’t tell you no, so I’ll do it myself. No.”

Rey saw an unpleasant shift in Ben’s posture. His hands looked like they itched for something to strangle, and she wasn’t ready to learn which decoration would meet its doom. She stood up. 

“You promised me a tour.” Her voice was a bit higher than usual, but firm. She walked up to Ben (un-wobbling, she felt proud to realize) and took his hand. “Let’s take a tour. I require a detailed analysis of your childhood bedroom.” 

Not knowing how determined his alpha felt about winning an argument, she thought it prudent to cheat and quickly gave her wrist a kitten-lick. Something about the saliva enhanced her scent and if there was ever a surefire way to distract Ben, it was to shove one of her glands under his nose. She pretended to rub away nonexistent dirt on his cheek. 

_Smell me, you idiot._

It worked: his first inhaled breath stuttered halfway through, and then his eyes were on hers. Still hot, but nowhere close to a crisis. 

“The tour,” Rey prompted, and he nodded numbly, his hand going to her waist. 

Before they turned the corner, she took one last glance of the living room. Leia was slowly leafing through the album, her tea discarded on the table. Han’s hands finally slowed down, the cards stacked into a recognizable deck. He pulled the topmost card with a hint of worry, then immediately cackled. 

“Ha!” he smirked. “Still got it.”


	2. Chapter 2

If the living room was the product of attention, the rest of the house was born of neglect. A decorator had clearly tried to wrangle the hallways and spare rooms into a cohesive palette, but it lacked the homey warmth of real memories. Try as she might to imagine a small Ben bumping his backpack against the walls, she struggled to picture anyone disturbing the quiet. Each room felt like a forgotten slice of time, the air itself untouched.

“It didn’t always look like this.” Ben joined her in front of an abstract painting. He stared at the red whorls and copious amounts of gold leaf with confused disgust. Then he reached up to touch it, humming at the texture. “They moved their bedroom downstairs years ago.”

And apparently they hadn’t been back since. “Too many stairs?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

Surely you weren’t meant to _touch_ paintings, but her finger joined Ben’s on the canvas. She let herself trace a similar aimless pattern. Ben was a reassuring warmth at her side. She spoke to the colors, anyway. “Do we need to talk about what happened?” 

She figured he’d either sigh or gnash his teeth. Instead he huffed a small, humorless laugh. 

“That’s her style.” He switched from tracing to rubbing. Bits of paint flecked to the floor. “Take no prisoners, accomplish the goal. If it clashes with your plans, so be it.”

“We haven’t booked anything,” she pointed out. 

“That’s not the point. You wanted to spend a week in the park. We’ll spend a week in the park.”

She was still unused to this: someone who so immediately and powerfully protected her interests. Finn and Poe had always supported her, but not with such feral vehemence. If the strange need ever arose, her friends would help her conquer a city; if she didn’t stop him, she had a feeling Ben would raze one to the ground just so he could rebuild her prize from the ashes. It was humbling and a little terrifying. 

“We could split the time.” _Free_ was a flavor Rey found hard to resist. “Leave a little early, spend a few days in Bar Harbor. Drive down to the house for my heat. Could be more comfortable to fuck somewhere familiar.”

“Familiar?” Ben raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never been.”

She shrugged. “But you have. And it’s only your second rut. Might be nice to know your way around. Your alpha would probably like it, being somewhere you recognized. Also,” she felt obligated to confess, “I’ve always wanted to have sex on a piano.”

“I don’t remember seeing that on the wish list. Wait. Are you—” he leaned closer to the frame, narrowing his eyes in concentration. “Are you drawing a dick?”

She was. “No.” 

“Are you sure? Because if those are balls, someone needs to see a doctor.”

On a whim, she turned the balls into tits. “You’re seeing things.” 

Silently, he studied the movement of her fingers. “That was a nipple.”

“No, that was an areola. _These_,” she tapped twice with purpose, “are nipples.” 

“I’m…not sure how to feel.” 

“Aroused?” she asked, hopeful. 

“Ah.” He made a noise of understanding. “Was this your plan? Lure me upstairs and seduce me with doodles?” 

She wasn’t expecting to laugh, but she did. One surprised bark. When he tiled his head, she tried to explain. “Number one, I’ve had too much whiskey. But number two, I think I was unprepared to hear you say that word.” He still looked lost. “Doodle,” she repeated. 

A beat of silence. “I cooked you fettuccini last week.” 

“And not once did you say noodle.” 

His brow furrowed. “Surely I did.” 

“Negative. It would have been equally memorable.” She tried to imbue her hand gesture with the right mix of apology and fondness. “It’s something to do with your lips. You just make this little—” It was hopeless to imitate; she knew she only looked like a goldfish. “I can’t explain it.”

He obviously had a retort—even opened his mouth—but abandoned his plan in favor of side-stepping behind her to grab her hips. “Can we go back to talking about arousal?” 

Instinct made her want to grind her own hips, but experience reminded her it wouldn’t be satisfying. She’d only be pressing back against his thighs. “That depends. On a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that your parents think we came up here to fuck?”

“Ten being the assumption that you’re riding my face as we speak?”

Wow. “While I do appreciate the imagery, I’m not sure that’s how the scale works.”

“It’s a fake scale. It works how we want it to work.” 

She was having a hard time reading his voice. Turning would be fruitless unless he released his grip, so she tapped at his fingers until he relented. And then—yes. Eyes to her gland straightaway. 

He wet his lips. 

Rey still had a choice—they didn’t _have_ to fuck—but it was a window quickly closing. Ben’s opinion was obviously clear. To buy herself more time, she reached up to cup his cheek. He instantly turned his face into her wrist, moaning softly when his lips met the gland there. 

“Did you take your blocker today?” she asked quietly. 

Ben’s eyebrows scrunched together when he forced himself to think. He shook his head. 

Ah. That helped put tonight into perspective. 

He’d taken them without fail for years. Decades. Curious, Rey had done some superficial research. All the answers had been worryingly clear: sustained use of suppressants was hell on the body. There were all sorts of side-effects—some of them mild, some of them devastating—and while she understood why he’d stayed on them, logic said he should try to wean himself off. 

She tried not to pressure him—it was his body; his choice—but made it clear she’d support him through whatever came of withdrawal. When he’d decided that yes, he probably should, he’d talked with his doctor and developed a plan: a slow weaning, something gentle and flexible with room for backtracking if the need arose. 

“I can’t do this without you,” he’d admitted, calling her after his last appointment. “I don’t—they’re telling me what _could_ happen, and it’s not—” His growl was laced with frustration. “I’m going to be an unstoppable fucking asshole, Rey. I’ve never had to regulate on my own and I can, I _know_ I can now, but…it’ll be an adjustment. He looked nervous until I told him I was dating an omega.”

The first day was hell. She’d caught him with the pill in his hand when she walked into the kitchen. The plan was to make him coffee, but he’d already beaten her: the pot gurgled noisily, the only sound beyond their breathing.__

_“Second thoughts?”_

_He didn’t say anything—only rolled the pill around in his palm. It looked so small._

_She tried again. “If there’s a better day, it might make sense to wait.”_

_“I’m not backing out.” He spoke to his hand. “Just thinking about the last time I tried this.”_

_He’d mentioned something about it weeks ago. “When you were in school?”_

_“Yeah.” The pill rolled and rolled. “Was suspended before lunch.”_

_It was easier to fetch her mug than it was to imagine the shape of the day ahead. Little boys were suspended; men were fired. Alpha men who were fired tended to take the news more badly than most. _

_Pouring the creamer, she thought about the towel. _

_The doctor had suggested it. Rey had used the same one for a week. Dried her face. Dried her hands. Even slept with it, once. The idea was that Ben could grab it if he felt his control slip, although his alpha bristled at the implication. He’d refused to take it on stupid principle, so she’d thrown it in his car. If he could make the choice with no one watching, he might actually take it into work. _

_She filled her mug, then kissed what she could reach of his ear. “Call me if you need me.” _

_The pill clattered into the sink._

He managed to make it through his shift. Only texted her once and only after she’d texted him twice. Too smart to ask if he was okay, she asked pointless questions about dinner. _Do you care if I pick up Thai?_ was answered with a swift _I will cook_. 

(Food was a good way to gauge his mood, she’d discovered. The pricklier he felt, the less amenable he was to any dish not made with his own hands. Especially if Rey was planning to eat.)

The bond wasn’t dead so much as in hibernation, but that didn’t stop Rey from second-guessing every unexplained swoop in her stomach. _Something_ was happening, but Ben was too proud to ask for explicit help. 

If she had to guess, he was on the verge of losing it from the minute he walked into the lab. She felt jittery for hours like she’d slammed twelve pots of coffee instead of a single cup. Waves of anger randomly stopped her mid-stride, sending her stumbling. She wished there was a way to send him peace, but if it was possible, she wasn’t sure how it was done. 

She left early, eager to make sure she beat him to her apartment. 

Twenty minutes past five, she could _feel_ him run up the stairs—a bristling, untamed energy. Knowing he’d have no patience for keys, she’d left the door unlocked. It slammed open. 

His face was terrifyingly pale. Sweat plastered his hair to his temples and his lips looked bite-swollen and raw. He lunged for her with shaking hands and fucked her on the carpet by her open door, his teeth sharp on her neck. He wasn’t in rut, but he’d barely finishing coming before he was rocking again, cursing and spitting and sucking new bruises anywhere his mouth could reach. As soon as he could pull out, he carried her to the bedroom. Then the shower. And _then_ he’d gone for a run. 

The way he eventually told it, he’d almost slaughtered five people. _Almost_ being operative, and he counted it as a success. 

He’d staggered the non-blocker days since, working his way up to three days between pills. Every time was easier. His alpha was loud and angry and demanding, but Ben was desperately trying to find even ground. 

It was getting harder for Rey to tell when he was off his blockers, behavior-wise. His smell, though. That was different. 

Any word that came to mind was inevitably too cheesy; in the end, she could only decide that he smelled more like himself. Like she was close to finding the non-heat equivalent of his lab coat. It was a smell that broke her concentration and begged her to indulge. Something uniquely him that was eager to blend with whatever was uniquely her. 

“Where’d you go?” Ben nipped at her wrist.

“Hm?” 

“You asked about my blocker and then I think you were trying to decide if you cared.” 

It was hard not to sound offended. “Of course I care.”

“I know you care about me.” It was a relief that she could easily tell he meant it. “About the blocker. Whether we’d be up here if I’d taken one today.” 

She hedged. “You don’t seem close to your parents.” 

“Never was.” Rey supposed it was progress to hear a faint hint of bitterness. Acknowledging that he _wanted_ to like his parents felt like a lightyear’s worth of improvement from dismissing them entirely. “My mother pissed me off before I met you and she pissed me off tonight. Will probably piss me off in the future.”

“Because you feel like she doesn’t approve of your choices?”

A low scoff. “Because she doesn’t acknowledge them in the first place.”

It felt wrong to hear Leia maligned in her own house, even if she saw the truth in what Ben said. Leia _had_ steamrolled their plans. Although Rey did believe her claim that it was an offer, not an obligation. She couldn’t imagine Leia being offended if they declined.

In any event: “We’re leaving soon. And if we scrub the last conversation, I’d say this was a success. I met your parents. I got to see some truly exceptional baby photos. You glared less than I expected.” Ben rolled his eyes, her tease loosening some of the tension in his shoulders. “Seemed like you had a good talk with your dad.” 

Almost reluctantly, he nodded. “He asked if I wanted to help him rebuild the Falcon’s engine.” 

“Okay.” She tried not to look too pleased by the prospect. “Will you?”

His lips twisted. “Not sure. There’s a lot to unpack between us. Him and me,” he clarified, not that she needed it. “Don’t know if I’m ready. But maybe.”

A start. 

Suddenly remembering how she’d spent part of the afternoon, Rey brightened. “You know, I think we would chide ourselves if we didn’t take advantage of the current situation.”

Ben looked mildly thrown, like he’d tasted a new flavor he couldn’t quite recognize. _Did I use it wrong?_ she wondered. But he seemed to shake it off. The corner of his lips tugged slightly to the right. “Oh?” 

“Not to be brusque,” she said smoothly, “but I’d like to suck your dick.”

His hands fisted on the sides of her dress. “We don’t have a lot of time.” Even as he said it, he positioned his body closer, the wood protesting under his feet. “And I thought you didn’t want to scandalize my parents?”

“As long as we’re fastidious about the clean-up, I might be able to look your mother in the eye.” 

Again, a minor wave of confusion. “I’ll try not to come somewhere overly obvious.” 

Taking a wild guess, she started walking backward toward an open door. She liked the way he stayed rooted, his eyes predatory and playful. Like he was indulgently giving her a head-start. “You might not be able to help yourself,” she said airily. “I plan on delivering peak performance.”

His legs tensed, ready to chase. He pitched his voice low. “Likewise.” 

In the doorframe now, she forced herself to concentrate. Maybe she needed to leave a more obvious trail. “I suppose we’ll have to see. But move with alacrity, because apparently we’re short on time.” 

Finally, he drew his eyebrows together. “Move with what?”

_Do not break._ “Alacrity.” 

“Since when do you say ‘alacrity’?” 

Miraculously, she arranged her face into something resembling puzzlement. “Am I not allowed to use the words I know?”

He studied her for far too long. It took an enormous amount of willpower not to shift on her feet. Or smile. She almost crowed with delight when his sigh hinted at frustration. He hated having questions without answers. 

“I don’t care which words you use,” he said slowly, finally taking a step forward. “It’s just that—”

“Do you not know the definition?” 

He stopped again. “What?”

“I can phrase it differently, if that helps.” _Picture innocent things_, she told herself. _Kittens with sleepy eyes. That small bat on YouTube being bottle-fed._ “We need to move _quickly_,” she over-stressed. “With zeal.”

“With—?” he cut himself off. “What the hell is going on?” 

“You’re struggling to understand my vocabulary,” she said sadly. 

His jaw dropped slightly. “I _know_ what alacrity means.” 

“Do you? Because you seemed flummoxed. Er—” she made an apologetic gesture. “Perplexed? Nonplussed? Stop me when I say something you recognize.” 

He looked stunned. Rey wasn’t sure when she’d felt prouder of herself. The last time he’d been this speechless, both of them were wearing far fewer clothes. 

She’d lose if she looked at him a moment longer. “You know what? It’s irrelevant.” She swooped her hand through the air, dismissive. “I wanted to try this really impressive thing with my tongue, but we probably shouldn’t. If I can’t do it with great elan, I don’t want to do it at all.” 

Royal decree so delivered, Rey pivoted to see how well she’d guessed. 

Ben’s room. No question. The built-in shelves were almost empty, most of the books long since transplanted with their owner. The only ones left were firmly meant for childhood—covers with fuzzy, comical bears and oversized font. Rey wondered who’d read to Ben most often, if Han or Leia ever crawled under the covers or if they made a fort in the big bay window. 

There were no posters, nothing overly personal on the walls beyond a few awards that Rey suspected were hung after he’d already left. She walked closer anyway, unsurprised to see proof of his academic aptitude but thrilled to discover that he’d also done well in aikido. And—she squinted—fencing? 

The hair on her neck prickled, and then his hands were on her: one wrapping just under her tits and pulling her back tight against his chest. The other went to her hem, his fingers hot on the bare skin of her thigh. 

She gasped when he bit the lobe of her ear. 

“So that’s where my SAT book went,” he said, and up, up, up slid the fabric of her dress. “Out of my office and into your greedy little hands.” 

She squirmed, biting her lip once the dress cleared the swell of her ass. She fought the instinct to tug it down. The lace of her underwear felt like no protection at all and she knew exactly what he was going to do and she needed to be quiet, she needed to mentally prepare because she _always_ squeaked whenever he first touched her—

His hand covered her mouth just in time. 

“Or did you think I wouldn’t notice?” Such banal words from his mouth; such wicked touches from his fingers. 

Focus. “To be honest—” Her eyes fluttered shut when the tip of his finger dipped inside. He pumped it slowly. “I didn’t think you would. Who keeps study prep for a test they’ll never take again?” 

“Seems like it came in handy.” He managed to keep his words steady, but he angled his nose until it pressed up against the gland on her neck. He took a deep breath, then changed his mind and licked her skin, instead. 

It was always a strangely wonderful feeling. Heats amped up her sensitivity, but any of her glands were happy to receive attention. Intent mattered. Sometimes it was soothing—every lick siphoning away her anger or frustration or sadness—and sometimes it soothed. Ben was getting better about verbalizing what pissed him off in order to calm down, but there was nothing so effective as her scent. He never had the same answer twice when she asked what he tasted (on Tuesday she might be marzipan, on Thursday a rich coffee), but the taste was always less important than what it did. 

_”It’s like balance,”_ he once said. _“Like I’m lost in some endless maze and suddenly I know how to find my way home.”_

Sometimes it was a hello, a quick nod to instinct. Other times it was a matter of smell: Rey couldn’t help but lick his wrists on the days he’d spent too long wearing gloves. There was a bitterness to the latex that was unwelcome, unpleasant; she was never satisfied until it was gone. Ben was less sensitive to the things she touched—couldn’t tell if she’d been welding or doing paperwork—but he had a much better nose for _who_ she touched. The scent of other omegas made him sneeze; any lingering hint of alpha needed to be replaced with his own. 

Sometimes it tickled and his lips had to chase for contact. Sometimes she laughed and sometimes the feeling was over before it truly began. 

Now it made her wet. 

Every suck of his mouth seemed to echo in the pit of her stomach. Her clit throbbed in time, her sensitivity ratcheting up when she heard his soft grunts of satisfaction. The wet licks so close to her ear. 

She could only imagine what they looked like: standing in the darkness of his old room, Ben curled around her like a vine, his finger in her cunt and his mouth on her neck, her dress wrinkled and tugged above her naked hips. The longer they stood, the more she relied on his strength to keep her upright. 

His hand sought the peak of her nipple. “I think I need a taste.” His voice was a rumble she would always and forever associate with sex. “I think you need to get on the bed and let me see your pretty tits.” 

“Which is it?” She could feel the thick line of his cock pressing against her back. Her mouth watered and she swallowed a soft growl of frustration. He’d gotten to touch her; so far it’d been too difficult to touch him. “See or taste?” 

“Both,” he decided, and stepped away. 

She stumbled. Her hands couldn’t decide where they wanted to go. His tongue had left her neck slick—did she want to wipe it away, or did she want to fill the aching emptiness between her legs? Or did she want to fix the criminally neglected fact that Ben was still wearing his pants? 

She reached for him, but drew up short. He kept out of reach, something devious lurking in the shape of his smile. 

A game, then. But what kind? 

He didn’t make her wonder for too long. “Throw the comforter on the floor and get on the bed.”

She arched an eyebrow, but did as he said, arranging herself in the middle of the mattress. It didn’t smell like him—just of dust. 

When she looked up, he was watching, his gaze unfixed, traveling from her legs to her lips to her breasts before starting the cycle anew. “Yeah?” he asked quietly. _You want to do this? Tell me and we won’t._

She probably _shouldn’t_ find it so hot to imagine what he wanted to do next. His parents were waiting, after all, and the longer they stayed upstairs the more obvious it would be that they weren’t on a simple tour. She hoped they wouldn’t investigate, but they so easily _could_ and Rey would never be able to bury that level of shame. Not with all the therapy in the world. 

She’d just hope they stayed downstairs. Her cunt clenched on the memory of his fingers and that was it, the decision was made. She caught Ben’s eye, then nodded. 

He palmed himself through his pants—only once, but roughly. His other hand balled into a fist. “Can you pull your dress under your tits?” 

Yes, she discovered, though barely. 

Deeper. Slower. “Your bra, too.” 

_That_ was harder, but she managed. Her nipples puckered instantly in the cool air of the room. Finished, she started to feel a bit ridiculous. Her poor dress was made of forgiving fabric, but it was going to be wrinkled beyond belief; it was designed to hang, not be mashed into a roll around someone’s stomach. 

It was worth it, though, to see the way Ben’s eyes darkened. 

Her hand was almost under the band of her underwear when he said, “No.” 

She didn’t touch herself, but she didn’t move back, either. “No?”

He shook his head, then approached the bed. “Hands on the frame.” 

That made her smile. Her own bed lacked a headboard, but Ben’s didn’t, and she routinely took advantage. They’d quickly learned he needed to be tied to the sturdier frame underneath (the rungs up top were not inexpensive, and Rey got tired of reinstalling them), but she had better control. It was her preference not to be tethered at all: she liked the fight of keeping her hands where he left them. 

Eyes locked with his, she raised her arms over her head, fingers grabbling until she found purchase on two different slats. She was no more naked than she was before, but the position made her chest feel exposed. 

Ben gave an appreciative groan, circling the bed until he sat down on the edge. He grabbed one of her knees and then the other, tugging them up until her feet were flat on the bed. Then he tapped the inside of her closest thigh. “Wider.”

Her eyes flicked toward the open door as she complied. “This feels like a dangerous game.”

He hummed agreement. “Do you want to know the rules?”

“Only if it’s possible to lose.” 

“I’m going to take care of these.” Settling on his side, Ben blew a heated breath across her right breast. Then he went up on his elbow, leaning across her chest to give her left a quick peck. “And your job is to not make a sound.” 

She should have known. He _loved_ her tits. If he could easily free one, he typically did. She had to be strategic about when she wore something that buttoned. 

“And if I make a sound?” Her skin was already prickling in anticipation. 

“Then I start over.” 

She readjusted her grip. “Start over from what?”

“Five minutes.” He took off his watch and arranged it on the swell of her dress. There was just enough light to see the tick-tick-tick of the second hand. “I get five minutes to do what I want, and you get five minutes of taking it.” 

Ah. Payback was a bitch. She’d strung him along for forty minutes, two weeks ago. Never before had she heard such creative begging.

An unbidden wave of dread ghosted over her shoulders at the memory. Because if _she_ remembered, he certainly did. “Well, we can’t take _too_ long,” she said, hoping she sounded more confidently sexy than nervous. “There’s not much time before dinner.” 

He stretched out along her side, looking far, far too comfortable. An alpha basking in the heat of the sun. “My mother already rescheduled it once. To be honest, I’m not all that concerned if I have to do the same.” 

He couldn’t mean that. “They have reservations after nine o’clock?” 

“Probably not,” he admitted, and shit, he hadn’t forgotten about her cunt. Without fanfare, he knuckled his way under the lace, tracing her slit. Checking the wetness. “But there’s always tomorrow. You said you’re not on the schedule.” 

Fuck. She wasn’t. “But what—_uhn_” Her back arched as she stretched around two of his fingers. The heel of his hand rested on her clit, his wrist stubbornly unmoving. “What about your parents?” she asked in a rush. 

“If they didn’t already guess what we’re doing, they’ll figure it out. It’s not that big of a house. No tour would take this long.” 

Her face flushed red at the thought. “Jesus. Then maybe we should, ah…wait?” 

A quick, wet suck of her nipple. She stared at his mouth, helpless, watching the unbroken string of spit trailing from his lip to her breast. “What difference will five minutes make?” 

_A lot_, she wanted to say, but he had already started a shallow, shallow rocking of his wrist and maybe it wouldn’t do much for her normally, but knowing she needed to be quiet made her clench. As soon as she did it, he stopped. 

A snarl snuck past her lips.

“Course,” his words were a buzz on her skin, “if you keep moaning, I guess we could be here all night.” 

“I didn’t moan,” she spat, because she _hadn’t_, and if he wanted to talk about sounds so fucking bad, why didn’t he mention how noisy he’d been last Tuesday? _Someone_ had torn the sheet with their teeth when they’d been deepthroated and it hadn’t been her. 

How were his licks so _loud_?

She bit her lip and stared at the ceiling. It would only be harder if she watched. 

Maybe closing her eyes would—no, that only made it worse. Too easy to imagine the roll of his tongue, the wetness that escaped from his lips and how it would make her tit shine, how his fingers would slip as they rolled the bud of her nipple, flicking it gently before he tugged before he caressed 

Not that where she looked mattered as much as what she felt. It was ten times as aggravating to feel the pressure of his fingers in her cunt when they didn’t move, and apparently his earlier rocking had been an accident. They were just _there_—huge and curled to touch where she liked best. It helped not at all that she knew it looked lewd: her legs spread, her toes twitching in anticipation of movement they wanted but wouldn’t get. 

His next suck was strong, open-mouthed, taking in as much of her tit as he could fit in his mouth, his free hand covering the other with a firm squeeze. 

Her hands curled into the sheets. Each tug echoed in her clit, which made her wetter, which made her ache harder for his fingers to thrust, which reminded her that they _wouldn’t_ but maybe she wouldn’t need them at all—not when the pressure was starting to build. 

She’d forgotten to ask if coming restarted the clock. 

She wasn’t there yet, but it was getting harder not to squirm. Ben was inescapable—his tongue, his fingers, his fucking _words_.

“I bet it’s so hard,” he murmured, and Rey wanted to wash that faux-sympathy right out of his mouth. “You love it when I give your tits attention.” 

_I do_.

“You should see the way they look.” He framed a nipple between two fingers, then blew on it gently, laughing when it made her scrunch her nose. “All pretty and flushed. Your right tit always gets redder faster than your left, did you know?”

_Because that’s the one you fucking_ suck_ more_, she wanted to shout.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re close. What is it that’s got you so hot?” _Damn_ him for sounding so conversational. “Is it the childhood bedroom thing? Ruining the same sheets I used to? Or is there something about that open door? Knowing someone could walk in, that they’d see you stuffed with my fingers?”

The last suggestion made her squirm because absolutely not—the fact that his parents could stumble up the steps did the _opposite_ of make her hot. The opposite. 

He didn’t let her ruminate. His lips went back to work. 

It was the gentleness, she decided, more than anything else. She could feel the swell of his cock against her hip, but he wasn’t writhing in frenetic need. He licked and sucked unhurriedly—like they lived on some island unreachable by time and earthly demands. If she arched her back begging for more, he unlatched. If she sensed a rhythm, he broke it. Ten seconds on one breast didn’t mean ten on the other; licking wasn’t necessarily followed up by sucking. 

He was just…_enjoying_ himself, was the best way to put it. And it was making her tremble. 

She kept waiting for him to speed up. The clock was ticking. She trusted him not to cheat, but surely they’d been doing this for hours now—her tits already felt puffy and blood-hot and she was biting her lip more often than not now, fisting the sheets because she couldn’t let herself come, she was _always_ loud when she came but she’d do it, it could happen, it _would_ happen if he’d just move his fucking hand, only a rock, just enough to get her over this crest that kept rising, her clit throbbing and swollen and—

“Look at me, Rey.” 

She shook her head. It hadn’t been five minutes.

“Omega.” 

And then her eyes _did_ open because he almost never played the alpha card in bed. 

His eyes were dark. Closer than she’d expected. Rich and warm and radiating love. 

“Will you kiss me?” he asked, the deep rumble of an alpha’s order disappearing into something sincere enough to break her heart. 

Her neck protested when she surged up, but his lips met hers with enough force to drive her back into the pillow. 

_Soft_, was all she could think. His lips were soft as they kissed her, his tongue hot and demanding when it curled around her own. 

When he deepened the kiss, his no-rub policy was either ignored or forgotten—his fingers hooked up and his wrist angled down and it was finally too much: she came, shuddering. He swallowed her whimpers, moaning his appreciation and murmuring praise she could only faintly hear. 

Eyes bleary, she looked at the clock. It hadn't been five minutes. 

As soon as she could draw a proper breath, she gritted, “You—absolute—_jerk_, I—”

His smile was far too smug. Professionally ignoring her glare, he thumbed away a bead of sweat on her forehead. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to seek revenge,” he said, soft and fond. 

“You’ll regret this,” she promised. 

“I know.”

“You’ll regret this _terribly_.” 

He kissed her temple. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still so thrilled about that trailer! :D
> 
> I'm [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig) on Twitter, if you'd like to come say hi.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re driving kind of fast.” 

“Is that judgement I hear?” She downshifted on the hill, her Civic whining as she passed a Prius. 

“Just an observation.” 

“Because it sounded like judgment.” 

Ben was silent for less than a minute before he asked, “Are you trying to outpace perceived shame?”

Rey choked on her own spit. “_Perceived_ shame? Your mother asked if she needed to wash the sheets!” 

“She’s always been practical.” 

“The sheets!” Rey shrieked. 

She was sure the scene would never be fully suppressed: Han and Leia on the couch—Han asleep and snoring, Leia reading as she sipped on what was left of her husband’s whiskey. Rey’s heart had given a hopeful thump: Leia looked wholly unconcerned. Free of trauma and suspicion both. There was quick, mild chatting as Ben ushered Rey toward the door. Had they made a decision about the house in Maine? They wouldn’t forget to give her regards to the maître d’, the one with the glossy goatee? Rey’s dress was beautiful. Ben looked well. Han would call about the motor. Ordinary, easy words. 

And then, as blandly as if she were ordering breakfast: “Did you already stick the sheets in the laundry? I’m starting a load before bed.”

Maybe Rey really was trying to outpace her shame. 

“How are you so unconcerned?” she asked, despairing. “That was deeply traumatizing.” 

“The day after my vacation, an on-site doctor had to swab the gland next to my dick. Two hours after that, he sat in on a presentation I delivered on polygenic diseases. Asked three deeply stupid questions.” He made a sound of disgust, then shrugged. “This year has redefined my definition of trauma.” 

Part of her brain understood. “But your _mother_—”

“Once walked in on me jerking off to a Raquel Welch poster. Didn’t scream, just lectured me at dinner about One Million Years B.C. and its sexist marketing.”

“Are you talking about the poster from Shawshank Redemption?”

“Yeah. I ended up burning it in the backyard firepit.” 

Rey was lost. “Why?”

“She made some good points.”

Rey would never understand the Solo Family Dynamic. Not ever. “Okay, so maybe this is easy for you. You’re enlightened, you’ve processed, whatever. But what am I supposed to do the next time I see her?” Her voice climbed. “Me? The one who came on your sheets?”

“Well, there are a few options.” He tried to readjust the air vent next to the door, then frowned when it came off entirely. Fruitlessly, he tried to stick it back in. “You can repress the memory. Pretend we didn’t go on a tour—just sat in an overly cluttered living room and talked about my mother’s political career. Got a little tipsy on my dad’s Laphroaig. Or,” he paused to stress, “you can realize my mother will not spend a single second thinking about anyone’s sheets—mine or otherwise—because she has eighty thousand other things on her mind. By the time you see her again, this entire night will be firmly forgotten.”

“Your mother doesn’t seem like the type to forget anything,” Rey muttered. 

“Not important things,” he conceded. The vent clattered to the floor. He eyed it like it was something that deserved to be crushed. “But trust me: it’s not worth worrying about.” 

“Worth it or not, that’s what’s happening. I can’t just…shut this off.”

“Your call. But I’d like to avoid the hassle of scaring off the cop that tries to give you a ticket.” 

“That was a singular occurrence, and you enjoyed it.”

The truth hung heavy in the air. 

_Think of something else,_ she ordered herself. _Plan your revenge. You could find a coat closet at the restaurant and suck him off between each course. Refuse to let him come until…until he swears to wipe his mother’s memory of sheets and any stains thereon._

Damn it. No. 

She tried again: _You could text him pictures of your new bra. The red one. But when he gets home, wear that top with the laces he can never figure out. Find excuses to hide your tits for a whole week. Two. Indefinitely, even, unless he begs._

She frowned. He might go mad in the face of such teasing, but so would she. 

_You promised Finn and Poe a sans-Solo camping trip. Schedule it next weekend and before you go, scent anything you can reach in Ben’s apartment. You’ll be distracted by S’mores. He’ll be distracted by nothing, he’ll be_ wild.

But that didn’t hit the right note, either. A stubborn voice in the back of her head reminded her that she’d been very complicit in the sheet-staining activities. She hadn’t brought him upstairs with purely wholesome intentions. Not to mention that she’d loved it—the feel of his mouth and hands and how near the end he’d been rocking his own hips for relief. Her nipples were still tender when they brushed against her bra. She kept finding excuses to touch them. 

It was just that _question_. 

Grudgingly, she let off the gas. A not-so-subtle sigh of relief escaped Ben’s lips. 

In an act worthy of sainthood, she decided to ignore it. 

\--

Fork midway to her mouth, Rey realized that Ben’s tie had yet to catch on fire. 

Though she’d braced for disaster when Ben gave his name, their reservation hadn’t been lost. The wine was poured by an expert hand. Four appetizers may have been slightly excessive, but their waitress was unfazed and ever-polite. Every bite of fried artichoke, stuffed mushroom, bruschetta, and beef brochettes had been delicious. A whole new set of worries had invaded her mind when she realized they were eating in a skyscraper, but the elevator hadn’t stalled between floors and the night was clear for an excellent view. Downtown was beautifully lit. 

They weren’t the only designated. Blockers and suppressants did an excellent job of tricking the senses, but Rey was acutely aware of every other alpha’s location. She wouldn’t have truly worried even without Ben’s looming presence, but instinct was instinct. She’d allowed herself a breath’s worth of needless fretting—_what if one of them goes into rut, what if the alpha by the door challenges Ben to some sort of…alpha-off?_—before getting distracted by food. 

That had been over twenty minutes ago. Since then, there had yet to be even a minor hiccup. 

There had to be a hiccup. 

She eyed Ben’s throat as he swallowed a piece of chicken. _If he doesn’t choke right now_, she pretended to shake hands with the universe, _he won’t choke for the rest of the meal. Not even on dessert._

Ben caught her staring. Her heart skipped a beat when he cleared his throat. Surely he wasn’t…?

“You look mildly horrified,” he said slowly. “Has my neck committed some sort of crime?” 

A flood of relief anchored her back to earth. “Not as such. I…thought I saw a bug.” She snatched her glass of wine, then thought better of it and motioned to the bottle, instead. “Could you?” Neither of them were clumsy people, but she didn’t trust herself not to drop it. She’d gotten glass in her hands once before; getting them all out had been harrowing. 

There was a beat before he set down his fork. The wine was closer to Rey, but he didn’t ask questions, just started to reach. 

_Unless,_ an insidious voice piped up, _he’s the one who drops it. Alphas are terrible patients. He’d refuse to wear bandages. He’d go to work with open wounds and get infected in a heartbeat. He’d lose his nails first, then his fingers. In less than a week he’ll have a blackened, rotting stump of a hand and you'll never be fingered ag—_

“Actually, I’ve got it,” she said suddenly, reaching for the bottle he already loosely held. 

He lifted it away from her, brows furrowing when her hands followed. He didn’t pour. “What is going on with you?”

She could lie again, but thought better of it. “I’m distracted.” 

“By?”

“By what could go wrong.” She cringed. “Nevermind. I’m being ridiculous. I would like wine, though, so if you could just—” 

He cut her off. “Is this what you were talking about earlier? Feeling like this date was cursed?” 

She sighed and twirled her fork through what remained of the risotto. “Like I said: ridiculous. It’s just one paranoid worry after another with zero substantial evidence.” 

“Like what?” He asked like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. 

“Oh…” Where to begin? “Spillage of a food or drink origin. Choking or fighting or eating disgusting food. I had a very vivid concern about the sturdiness of our chairs, but everything seems to be in order.” She wiggled on the cushion just to be sure, pleased to hear no squeaks. “It’s nothing. Truly worthless fretting.” 

“I see.” He opened and closed his mouth several times. “Did you think something would change between us if we had a shitty date?” 

“No,” she said quickly. “I already told you, nothing would—”

“Because I hate to break it to you, but we’ve already had some objectively shitty dates.”

“—change. Excuse me?” 

He refilled his own wine glass with a steady hand. “The float trip.” 

She blinked at him, eventually realizing that he didn’t intend to elaborate. “What about the float trip?”

“You tell me,” he said calmly. “What happened when we stopped for gas?”

The chatter of the other patrons and the clinking of metal on plates turned to white noise. What _had_ happened when they stopped for gas? She had to think. 

It was the first time she’d introduced him to Poe. Nature had seemed like a neutral setting, so she’d planned a short float trip. It seemed like the perfect solution: they’d be trapped in a single car for at least an hour on the drive down and back, which would surely encourage (or demand, depending on Ben’s stubbornness) lively conversation. Once they arrived, they’d check-in and rent the canoes and they could relax as they lazily paddled down the river. They’d be together, but not _together_ together, and if someone got too snarky, they could always paddle faster to find peace. 

Remembering what had happened at the gas station was hard when the image of Ben’s shoulders working the paddle floated to the forefront of her mind. She’d kept finding excuses to flick water at his naked back for the aesthetic effect and he’d kept pretending he didn’t know why. 

Finn was in charge of packing their lunch. They’d found a decent bank and pulled the canoes ashore. She’d stubbed her toe on a rock. The sandwiches were delicious, the drinks cold, and Ben held her hand as they dried off in the sun. When Finn and Poe were distracted with re-packing, he’d fussed about her toe and carried her back to the canoe. 

But, gas. 

Nothing immediately came to mind, so she tried talking out loud. Maybe he’d give her a clue. “I remember Finn needed to use the restroom,” she started unsteadily. “Poe was the one pumping the gas. I think you were bitching about the impracticality of leather seats in the summertime heat.” 

“One day you, too, will agree. But what were _you_ doing?” he pressed. 

She couldn’t…oh. “I had poison ivy!” she said, perhaps too triumphantly. “I was using that lotion you’d brought.” 

“Right. You squirmed the entire way there and back.” He said it like the memory still pained him. “And those stupid leather seats didn’t help.” 

“Was _that_ why you kept wincing?”

“I never want to hear the sound of you de-sticking your skin from a backseat ever again.” 

“Hold on.” She didn’t want to lose track of the point. “So the date was terrible because I had a common skin condition?”

He didn’t answer. “What happened mid-way through the float?” And then, probably because he suspected she needed the clue: “You said it wouldn’t happen, but it did.”

At least she was faster, this time. “Are you talking about the rain?”

“The rain. The downpour. The lightning.”

She frowned. “There wasn’t lightning.” 

“Except,” he raised his fork, “that there was. All three of you pretended not to see it.” 

That…did sound like something they’d do. If only momentarily. “Well, clearly we survived.” 

“We did.” He speared one of the last bits of his entrée, swirling it through the sauce until he’d created a little pool next to his sweet potatoes. “But not before that rock crushed your foot—”

“Oh, please. I barely—”

“—and you emptied out my dry, clean clothes into the river. Which I know—” he raised his free hand to ward off her protest, “was an accident.” He studied the abstract art of his plate, then set down his fork without actually eating. “Also, Finn should be banned from choosing music. I don’t care how much he likes them: the Bee Gees were not meant to be played on a continuous loop.”

Leaping to Finn’s defense was involuntary. “Says who?” 

“Someone whose ears almost bled after listening to them on a continuous loop.” 

Secretly, she agreed. Finn had a total of two CDs in his car. And no Bluetooth, which drove her mad. She’d never publicly admit it, though. Finn once washed vomit out of her hair during _and_ after a particularly nasty bout of flu. In light of that, listening to the same songs was hardly a chore. 

“What was your point again?” she asked, eager for the conversation to end. Until tonight, she’d assumed he’d had a good time. Or as good of a time as someone as supremely and comfortably anti-social as Ben could have. “Something about objectively terrible dates? Because I’d say we’ve been fortunate.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t remember the time the barista spilled the coffee on my lab coat?”

“It was a _drop_, and that’s what you get for insulting my Frappuccino. And for wearing a lab coat outside of a lab.” 

“Or that time we waited in line for two hours for Star Destroyer tickets? Remember how that prick in front of us bought twenty five and we walked away empty-handed?”

“You tried to punch him, Ben,” she said tiredly. 

Ben’s snort was dismissive. “He was an alpha. At worst, we would have been scolded.”

Suddenly, Rey wished she’d never admitted anything at all. This conversation was starting to turn the food sour in her stomach. “If I recall,” she grumbled, “we ended up spending the night of the concert having some pretty spectacular sex.”

His voice turned thoughtful. “Was that or was that not the time you tried giving me a blowjob after eating hot wings?”

It was just her imagination, but she felt the lick of a phantom burn on her cunt. Apparently it insisted on showing solidarity. “No, that was…” _The night we had to order take out because I scorched your ceiling making stir fry._ Her jaw snapped shut. 

“Come again?” 

She felt her eyes go flint-hard. His whole face was practically sparkling with mischief. “No. Your dick was perfectly adequate that night. Serviceable,” she forced herself to say. “Functional.”

He didn’t look _nearly_ as upset by the (false) implication as she’d hoped. Mostly he just looked amused. “Serviceable? Sounds like something you should bring up with management.”

“Noted,” she growled. 

“Of course,” he sounded wholly unconcerned, “I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned the time we found out you were allergic to dark chocolate. Did you ever fix your car?”

He’d driven her to the hospital. Even though her throat was swelling and even though the hives howled to be scratched, she’d laughed because Ben’s overblown panic reminded her of a 1990s rom-com. She half-expected Hugh Grant to be waiting for them in the emergency room. Her car had never been the same: Ben had tried to drive it like a Maserati, wholly uncaring of things like speed and rotted brake pads. 

“You’re smiling,” Ben noted. “How can you be smiling? You almost died.”

_Because of the way you looked at me in the rearview mirror, like the thing you loved best was breaking. Because you scared the receptionist. Because you massaged my feet and didn’t stop, not even when the alpha doctor called you a dog. Because when you said I’d be okay, you sounded like you needed it to be true._

“Number one: I was so far from dying. And number two: I was smiling because it was a good memory.” The warmth in her voice faded when she recalled how this whole conversation started. “Although apparently, those are in short supply.” 

His head tilted. “I never said we haven’t made good memories.”

He hadn’t, but he’d certainly painted a troubling picture. Before she could think, she voiced the ugly thought she’d been trying to repress: “Have you ever enjoyed a date with me?” 

Someone at a nearby table coughed mid-drink. Ben spared them a single, warning glance. “I always enjoy the time we spend together.” He sounded cautious, like he’d walked into a room full of a thousand traps. "That is not at all what I implied."

“So I imagined the last five minutes of conversation?”

“Bad moments don’t make bad dates. That was my whole point. I was trying to comfort you.” 

“Well, you did a shitty job.” 

Something about the tone of her voice must have scared him. He reached out to grab her hand. 

Childishly, she put it in her lap. 

He struggled with that for a moment. “Don’t…” The sound of a heavy swallow. “Don’t do that.” 

She ignored him and reached for the wine, feeling unreasonably angry when she realized it was empty. Where was their waitress?

“Rey.”

Wine would smother this heavy feeling in her heart. Dessert would bury it completely. She’d worked overtime last week; the direct deposit had come through that morning. It wouldn’t be like the time she tried to pay for their movie tickets. Her card wouldn’t be declined. 

_He was probably embarrassed,_ her brain piped up. _You held up the line._

She had. At the time, she’d appreciated how Ben let her handle the fussy cashier. No alpha glares, no shouldering her out of the way with a card of his own. But he must have been squirming. The odds were astronomically high that he’d never been in a situation like that in his life. Not when his parents owned a mansion in Maine. 

How many other bad moments had she missed? How naïve was she to think that he wouldn’t care about hot sauce blowjobs or girlfriends that didn’t know their own allergies? 

“I know what you’re doing. You need to stop.” 

He hadn’t brought up those dates to break her heart. She knew that. It had even been funny, at first. Awkward moments worthy of a laugh track on a sitcom. A well-intentioned distraction. 

She didn’t think of herself as insecure. She also didn’t think of herself as dramatic. Part of her knew she’d regret this silence later, but in the moment it couldn’t be helped. It was temporary. There were worse things she could do. Movies offered plenty of inspiration. Books, too. She’d read a romance novel last week where the heroine—upon learning that her cowboy lover had a gambling addiction—burned a covered wagon and cackled in the ashes. 

She eyed the candle and enjoyed a few seconds of fantasy.

This would pass. All the same, it hurt a little. Here she’d thought he was building the same happy catalog of memories only to find out he’d been collecting the bad ones instead. 

“Stop.” 

She looked at him. His hands were on the arm rests, too tight to be casual. Was he getting ready to stand up? “I’m processing,” she said, if only to make sure he stayed seated. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

One of his hands moved so he could drag it down the front of his face. “Fuck.”

“Fuck?”

“I—” He sighed. “I was trying to make you _stop_ worrying, but I think I made it worse.”

“You did.”

The words hit him like a bullet. He stared at her, searching her face for a reason not to panic. 

It was too much. This was too much. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said suddenly. “I am going to take my purse and I’m going to find the nearest place to pee. You’re going to find our waitress and you’re going to order at least three desserts and you’re not going to mention how you gagged when I forced you to try baklava. Sorry, by the way.” Hearing that, he lowered his eyes. She didn’t let herself care that no normal alpha would do such a thing. “I’m probably going to wash my hands more than I need to, so don’t think I’ve found the nearest fire escape and left you with the bill. I’ll be back. 

_When_ I’m back, we’re going to pretend I didn't dramatically pause our date by escaping to the bathroom. I will not let myself wonder what you’ve hated about tonight—” he jerked in his chair, “and then we’ll go home. You were going to stay over and that’s still the plan. We’ll kiss each other goodnight, we’ll sleep, and then I’ll drive you to work in the morning and _then_ we’re going to have a really, really good Friday free of disaster. Okay? Okay.” 

She grabbed her purse from the floor, leaving before he could say a word.


	4. Chapter 4

She didn’t even have to pee. 

Bathroom found and entered, she wasn’t sure what to do next. She spent thirty seconds admiring the décor (wooden instead of metal doors; floors that sparkled like an ocean under moonlight; soap dispensed from artsy bottles covered in French) before slipping into a stall and standing awkwardly in front of the toilet. 

She wasn’t alone. It wasn’t exactly a bustling hub of activity, but there were natural consequences to drinking wine. The dim lighting of the restaurant was flattering; no one probably _needed_ to retouch their makeup, but Rey couldn’t fault them for doing it anyway. The clicks of heels and the padding of softer flats always paused in front of the mirror. Compacts were opened and shut. Lips were dabbed at and smacked. 

Self-consciously, she rubbed her own together. Her favorite color was red, but her mouth had a tendency to touch Ben’s skin. The last time she’d tried to get fancy for an impromptu lunch date, she’d felt like a vampire. By the time they parted, Ben’s neck looked mauled. 

She remembered laughing as they scrambled for a way to get it off. She wasn’t one to carry much in her purse. There were no helpful napkins or baby wipes or even an errant receipt. In the end, she used the inside of her shirt. She saw it every time she opened her closet, the white perpetually stained pink. 

_Apparently,_ she thought bitterly, _Ben would only remember that I made him late for work. Probably had an allergic reaction on the drive back. Probably swerved when he went to scratch and…decapitated a pigeon—no, a squirrel. A mother squirrel. A mother squirrel in front of her bushy-tailed, traumatized offspring. To this day, he holds me responsible for their needless suffering._

She sighed. 

Once the sinks were free, she left the stall. A glance at the mirror confirmed that she didn’t look particularly brokenhearted. Unsettled, perhaps. In the process of processing. But not broken.

Because she wasn’t. Her brain had a tendency to spiral, but no amount of mind tricks could ever convince her that Ben didn’t care. He did. 

He fussed about what she ate at work. Preferred to cook her dinner and radiated pleasure when she cleared her plate. He listened when she bitched about broken machines and her boss’ dismal bookkeeping. He massaged her hands after particularly grueling days. 

Once when she called to tell him goodnight, she ended up talking about her childhood for no reason at all. Confessed how often she’d been hungry, that she spent too many nights wondering if the ache in her stomach would ever really go away. Half an hour later, he was knocking at her door, the phone still in his hand. She hadn’t heard him get into the car, but he had and he’d held her and she surprised herself by crying when he tugged her into bed. 

She saw how he looked at other people. She saw how he looked at her. 

So he cared. Deeply, even. 

But apparently he collected bad memories like playing cards. 

She’d _known_ there had to be a catch. They argued from time to time, but it never felt abnormal. Voices were never raised. He did things that pissed her off, like lying about how much she owed him for groceries and being overly tidy. He never failed to straighten the pillows on her couch or pick up a rag when he ventured into her kitchen. Clutter, which she loved, was half a world away from his comfort zone. 

A woman exited the stall and joined Rey at the counter. An alpha, her nose told her. When their eyes briefly met in the mirror, they shared a quick, disinterested smile. 

There wasn’t a clock, but she should probably head back. She felt better. Dessert was likely waiting. Sugar would clear her mind, then—

The woman grabbed the upper flesh of Rey’s arm. 

Rey turned to her, confused, and saw outraged shock in every line of her face. “Wha—?”

“Get _out_.” 

Rey frowned. The woman refused to make eye contact, her gaze fiercely directed somewhere over Rey’s head. Was this an alpha thing? Her omega cringed, instinctive. Swallowing, she made herself say, “Well, I was _about_ to, but you’ll have to let go of—_hey_.” 

The woman tugged at her, and if Rey didn’t know any better, she’d think she was trying to shield her from—

“Let her go,” growled Ben. 

_Ben._

Rey whirled, breaking the other alpha’s hold. And then she blinked, because no, she hadn’t made it up and yes, that was actually Ben, looking large and generally intimidating, his lip twitching in the precursor to a snarl. The deepness of his voice felt simultaneously out of place and extremely welcome. 

“You’re in the bathroom,” Rey observed stupidly. “This is not your bathroom.” 

The other woman, who Rey realized had been emitting a protective growl of her own, abruptly shifted her posture. “Wait. You know him?” 

“She does.”

“I do.”

The combination their voices felt loud in the now-quiet. 

There was a deep, inquisitive draw of a breath. “Oh,” the woman said, enlightened like something dark had suddenly stepped into the sun. “Cheers, then.” Rey heard the rattle of a grabbed purse, then felt, rather than saw, someone duck around the two of them and head toward the door. The slightly blurry shape paused before exiting completely. “Word of advice: if the make-up sex can wait until you’re closer to a mattress, I think the management would be in your debt.”

And then she was gone. 

By some act of fate, Rey realized they were alone. 

“You—” she started, but got distracted by his hands. They were full. “You’re holding food.” 

Even though the other alpha had left, Ben’s scent was still spiking. Distantly, the bond flickered between territorial, aggressive panic and deep concern. When she spoke, his brow furrowed. Like she’d spoken at the end of a long tunnel and he could only hear the distorted echo of her words. 

So she said them again: “Why did you bring…” she leaned closer to look, “cheesecake and chicken bones into the bathroom?” 

His response was not instantaneous, but he did manage to look down. Only briefly. Then his gaze was back, scanning her face. “I needed them.”

“You needed them,” she repeated. 

“I was worried about you.” 

There was a lot of sauce left around the chicken. Absently, she realized he must have left the fork back on the table. “So you brought me food? In the bathroom?” 

“Yes.” 

A beat of silence. “Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture,” she said slowly, “but I was almost done. And this is just a hunch, but it’s probably ten kinds of unsanitary to keep—”

“Do you remember where we went the first weekend after the lab?” 

“I—?” She didn’t know what to do with her hands. When she realized it wasn’t a rhetorical question, she said the first thing that popped into her brain. “Flowers?”

He nodded gravely. A man with a renewed sense of purpose. “Flowers. You said you liked to walk through the gardens. You wore a blue top. Your pants were green and you’d patched them twice on the left knee.” 

That was…specific. And also true. She nodded once, confused but quiet. 

“I asked you if you had a favorite flower. You said you didn’t have one. That you preferred the trees.” He swallowed. “And I don’t…I don’t remember when we found it, but you showed me the one you liked best. The gingko.” The plates trembled in his hands, but he didn’t set them down. Half the air had suddenly escaped the room. “I asked why, and you said it was ancient. Adaptable and hard to kill. And beautiful.” 

She watched him breathe. Waiting. 

“And all—all I could think about was how quickly my life had changed. I’d never been to that garden. Not once. Even though I lived nearby. I didn’t give a shit about flowers or trees or any of the things I realized made you so happy. You had a story about almost every living thing we passed. I didn’t have one thing to say. You kept asking if I felt okay.”

“I remember,” she said quietly. 

“And I wasn’t.” He swallowed thickly. “I was so far from okay.” 

Something hardened in the pit of her stomach. As if he hadn’t done enough damage back at the table, he had to go and corrupt one more memory. She’d treasured that day, could have sworn that he’d looked at her like—

“Because I realized I loved you.”

Her heart stopped beating. 

“I realized I wanted to hear every story again. And again. And again, for the rest of our lives.” His eyes were wet. She watched him clench his jaw. He exhaled a shaky breath. “The first weekend, Rey. I could barely look at you. I thought you’d see it in my face and run because…who does that? Who thinks that? I’d known you less than a week.”

She no longer felt anchored to the earth. The look in his eyes…she couldn’t describe it. 

“But it was true. I felt it. The whole time. When you showed me the gingko, I almost fell to my knees. Couldn’t stop thinking…” a flush pinkened his cheeks, “about you standing there again someday. As my wife.”

There was no air left to breathe. 

“So,” his voice sounded raw, “if you think that I care about concert tickets. Or about my fucking lab coat. Or rain. If you think I give the smallest of shits about my tie—” 

The plate with chicken finally moved with purpose. With no hesitation, Ben tilted it just under his neck. Rey watched, dazed, as the thick remnants of sauce slid down the fabric. A few errant drops splashed on the floor.

“If you think I’d stop loving you because you ripped your dress or missed your mouth—” Plate emptied, he set it down on the counter. Before she could protest, he ran his free hand through the mess of his shirt and—fingers dripping—painted a line of sauce on her hip. 

At some point, her jaw had ceased to work. Speechlessly, she watched his hand go from her dress to the plate of cheesecake. 

“If you think I’m not willing to eat dessert—” he grabbed a fistful of strawberry-stained cake and stuffed it into his mouth, hardly bothering to chew. His eyes never left hers. “That I care how many desserts _you_ eat…” 

Helpfully, her mouth was already open. It made for an easy delivery.

He waited until she swallowed. Then the plate crashed to the floor—abandoned, because he was moving closer, pulling her body to his, ruined tie and all, his eyes blazing with an intensity she was shocked she could hold. 

His hands went to her face, his forehead coming down, down, down to touch her own. 

“If you ever think those things matter, I want you to remember that day in the park. How I knew I loved you then. How nothing could change that I love you now.” 

She kissed him. 

It was messy. A small, distant part of her soul cringed at the squelch his sauce-soaked tie made against her chest, but it was so very insignificant in the face of her pounding heart. Her hands wouldn’t settle, distracted by one thing on their journey to another—catching at the jut of his shoulder blades only to fall to his belt, tugging on the leather to pull him closer but abandoning their mission when he caught them in his own. Her brain was wholly unhelpful—a disorganized general with orders no soldier could possibly follow. 

_Pull his hair. Touch his ears. Hop on the counter. Open your legs so he’ll stand between them. Stay where you are. Tell him you’ve thought about that day in the park since the second you stepped through the gates. Kiss him. Move—no, stay there and let him keep—do that again, with your teeth. See if he can get louder. Kiss him. Tug at his filthy tie. Kiss him._

He tasted of cheesecake and wine. New sweetness. 

“I can’t believe—” she pulled away to gasp, “you ate cheesecake.” 

No longer distracted by her lips, he attacked her neck. She heard a small groan of assent. 

“I can’t believe you finger-painted on my _dress_.”

His hands found her ass, cupping and lifting and encouraging a tilt that made her want to roll her hips. 

“I can’t believe you brought food into a bathroom. I can’t believe you’re in the _bathroom_, how—”

A fierce kiss. Then, “Had to. I was such a fucking idiot.”

“That feels a—little harsh.” His lips kept making it difficult to speak. “How about mis—ah. Misguided?” 

“Whatever you want,” he said, and that didn’t make perfect sense, but she didn’t care. “You forgive me?”

The way he said it merited her full attention. He tried to chase her when she pulled away, but it felt too important to catch his eyes. To make sure he heard her when she said, “You don’t need my forgiveness.” She smiled at his flushed cheeks, waiting until the message soaked through. When he caught her hand and squeezed, she squeezed back. “If we’re being honest, I’m the one who started it. I don’t know if you know this,” she shared conspiratorially, “but sometimes my brain can be dumb.” 

“Your brain was the brain behind a pre-dinner orgasm. Your brain is my favorite.” 

She kissed him again, more tenderly. “Did you pay someone to keep watch outside the bathroom?” 

Too slowly: “No.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Fate dictated that we be alone. Ergo, we are alone.” 

“Now I _know_ you’re lying.”

“Okay, you can’t blame everything on my vocabulary.” 

“You default to fancy diction when you’re being task-avoidant. Er, subject-avoidant.” 

“Last week you said I used it to assert dominance.” 

“This is also true. Although not,” she paused to step closer, resting her head on a relatively cake-free section of shirt, “applicable to this particular moment. And it’s okay, by the way. I just hope you paid them a fair wage.” 

One hand came to cradle the back of her head. He sighed defeat. “The terms were very firmly negotiated. You would have been proud.” 

She hummed, pleased. Despite the overlying haze of sugar, his scent surged through, begging her to nuzzle against his chest. As soon as she did, he started up a faint purr. It made her smile. Her fearsome alpha: Invader of Bathrooms and Fierce Eater of Cake. “Can we still afford dinner?”

“As long as your car doesn’t need gas.”

Reality loomed on the horizon. The faint sounds of the restaurant snuck past the door, and Rey imagined the scene as they left: a veritable mob of angry women with full bladders, their glares firmly broadcasting some version of _I hope those stains are permanent._

She winced. 

By unspoken agreement, they separated. Rey refused to look in the mirror. She didn’t particularly care to know what dried cream sauce added to her ensemble. Beyond the dress, her hair had to be mussed—without fail, Ben made it his mission to make her hair ties disappear—and she knew her glands were flushed from attention. It was hard to smell herself, but the odds were good that she was doused in scent. Hers. His. Enough of it to be easily detected by anyone with the right nose. What they’d done wouldn’t be a secret. 

Not that they’d done enough. 

Ben picked the cheesecake plate up off the floor, though he seemed unsure what to do with it once he held it in his hands. For the first time, he looked like a man out of his element. He eyed the stalls warily, perhaps fearing some sort of bathroom demon’s womanly revenge. 

She took pity on him. “You know, I had a dream like this, once. Well. You and me in a public bathroom. I don’t know if my subconscious could have dreamed up the bit about the food smearing.”

“You don’t think so?” After a moment’s hesitation, he set the plate on the counter. “Because dreaming about food kind of seems on brand.”

She ignored that. “I think it happened the night we watched porn. Remember the one with the plumber?”

“Yes,” he said dryly. “If I recall, you had entirely too many opinions about his dick.”

“I refuse to believe that wasn’t a cancerous mole. But my point is: maybe I have mystical powers.”

An arched brow. “How so?”

With every passing second, guilt from bathroom monopolization surged stronger. Whoever was guarding the door deserved a raise. She had to hurry. 

One step and she almost slipped on the spilled cheesecake, but Ben grabbed her elbow. And it just…she probably shouldn’t get sentimental. This wasn’t the time. But his hand was warm and freakishly, perfectly huge and it was some sort of metaphor, right? Him being there to catch her, or maybe her trusting him to catch her in the first place. 

She had a point. She had things to say. But they were close again, and the wisps of his hair looked fragile in the soft yellow light. He was quiet. Watching her watching him. 

Now that he’d said it, it was so easy to see: love. It didn’t quite look like she’d been led to believe. Books talked about tender eyes and slackened jaws. Ben’s eyebrow was decorated with food. His shoes audibly squeaked when he shifted on his feet. Love wasn’t something she could point to on his body like a landmark on a map, but it was there all the same. In the way he looked at her, sure, but more in the way she felt safe. How that was something he promised without saying anything at all. 

“Because,” she finally remembered to answer, “after your dream-self inspected the pipes, and after my dream-self commented on the wrench in your pants, you told me you loved me. And I said I loved you back.”

He exhaled, a sharp burst of breath. “You didn’t tell me that you loved me.” 

She frowned. “I didn’t?”

“No, you just—kissed me.” 

“No? Well, then.” She kissed his collarbone. “I love you.” She kissed his neck. His leaping pulse. “I love you. I’ve loved you.” She thought of the park and the way he looked under the shade. “And I don’t plan to stop.” 

He was smiling. She decided he needed to do it more often. “Rey, I—”

“That is bloody _enough_.” 

Three women blocked the exit. The tallest one extended her pointer finger and swooped it in a little circle. First it landed on Ben. “You? You’ve had your moment. It was romantic. A grand gesture, if odd.” The finger shifted to Rey. “And you? You experienced said moment. You were swayed. There was kissing in conjunction with overt declarations of affection. We,” she gestured at the small group, “were universally touched. Someone even shed a tear.” Her voice turned threatening. “But now we are done. We are tired and we have to pee and we are _done_. This bathroom has been officially reclaimed.”

A woman in blue cleared her throat. “That means that you need to go.” 

Ben grabbed Rey’s hand. They went.

\--

“I can’t believe you came in the bathroom.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“I can’t believe you told me you loved me in the same place where I pretended to pee. Where people are probably peeing right now.”

“Are you suggesting that 2-ply isn’t romantic?”

“I suggest nothing. And it was 1-ply.”

“I thought you said you didn’t pee?”

“I was standing alone in a stall for eight minutes. I got bored. What were you doing, by the way?”

“While you were pretending to pee? Pretending to stay calm, I guess. Hatching plans. Deciding how dangerous I wanted to be.”

“How dangerous?”

“My plans involved dumping chicken juice on your beautiful dress. I wasn’t sure how forgiving you’d be. You were really proud of your hemming.”

“That was part of your plan?”

“They were hasty plans constructed under stress. I can’t say they were perfect.”

“Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“They were perfect.”

\--

Her apartment was cool when they walked through the door. She’d forgotten to close a window. 

As she suspected he would, Ben didn’t even make it to the kitchen before frowning at the state of her living room. She snatched the takeout bag (in a further bid for forgiveness, he’d ordered extra desserts) and wandered to the fridge so he could straighten and surreptitiously dust without counting her eye rolls. 

She put the food away. She took a nail to the dried cream under her left boob. She decided she wanted to plant a garden in the spring. 

_Love_. The loop in her brain never ended, no matter the moment. _Love, he loves me, love._

The shower started. 

Taking his cue, she headed to the bedroom. Undressed to her underwear and bra. Held her dress up to the light and decided that the dry cleaners had seen stranger stains, that she had a coupon somewhere on her phone. She left to clean her face in the kitchen, stealing the toothbrush Ben left inside the Dutch oven for mornings when _you are the biggest sink hog in the world and wow, your elbows are pointy, you know what, never mind, I’ll just go elsewhere and clean my teeth in peace._

The bed was soft when she slid between the sheets. She was unexpectedly tired. Full and happy and only minorly regretful. She’d had _plans_ for tonight, most of them involving Ben’s dick, but the longer her head rested on the pillow, the harder it was to imagine moving. They could have sex in the morning, right? She could make a game of it—see how many times Ben could come before her alarm. 

“I know that look.” The bed dipped as Ben joined her. “And if I’m right, I hereby formally protest.”

“You have to wake up early anyway,” she pointed out, turning over to face him. He’d left the hallway light on by accident; the faint light cast unfamiliar shadows across her carpet. “I’m driving you to work.”

“I take it all back. I’ll Uber. I don’t have to be at work until nine.” 

“Seven is not all that different from nine.” 

“You wake up at five-thirty. That is _glaringly_ different.”

“I don’t like to feel rushed.” She wanted to shrug, but she doubted he could see it. He probably had his eyes closed now, same as her. “And you’re whining, but you’ve never turned down a morning blowjob.”

A snort. “Because I’m not insane.” 

“You don’t think it’s a nice way to start your day?”

“Of course it is. But you’re not talking about blowing me in the daytime. You want to blow me in the middle of the night.”

“You,” she paused to roll closer, hooking a leg over his hip, “are the most dramatic man I know. The sun rises at six-thirty.”

“You know what would solve this crisis?” His hand found her leg. He gave it a firm squeeze. She recognized that squeeze. Any second now, he’d pull her closer and try to rub his dick against her like—that. Just like that. “Sex. Sex right now.” 

She pretended to yawn. “No, thanks.” 

“You haven’t moved your leg.” 

“That’s because I’m comfortable. Tell your dick to go to bed.” 

“Says the person who’s already come twice today.” When she didn’t answer, he switched to palming her ass, the tips of his fingers sneaking under the band of her underwear. “Didn’t you have nefarious plans for me?” he asked, slightly desperate now. “Revenge?”

“I did,” she answered airily, steadfastly _not_ arching into his touch. She did her best to melt into the mattress, letting her muscles go lax. “But I forgive you.”

“What if I’d like to be punished anyway?” 

Well, damn. Her clit perked up, throbbing. But she had to remain strong. “You haven’t done anything that requires punishment,” she said truthfully. 

He went suspiciously quiet. 

“If you’re debating whether or not you should do something that requires punishment, the answer is no.”

He grunted unhappily. “Could you at least tell me what you were planning to do?”

“Nope.”

“Not even one thing?” 

“Orgasms.”

“Multiple orgasms?”

Lifting her leg off of his hip, she resettled over onto her other side. “I guess you’ll never know.”

“_Rey_.” 

Now that he couldn’t see her, she let herself smile. He was so rarely like this: not pouting, but eager enough to pester. Historically, alphas didn’t fare well with denial. If she honestly wanted to sleep, he would have left her alone, but he must have sensed her lack of conviction. Or at least guessed the shape of it. She’d never been a very good liar. 

He managed to be quiet for thirty full seconds. “Are you actually tired?” 

“If I tell you what I was planning,” she made sure to mumble into the pillow, “will you let me sleep?”

“Yes,” he said eagerly. 

With a grand, put-upon sigh, she rolled onto her back. Shamelessly, Ben immediately moved himself closer, reaching one arm across her stomach and propping himself up with the other. She opened one eye, saw him, and observed, “You’re looming.” 

If anything, he loomed even harder. Quiet. Studiously intent. 

“Right.” She rubbed at her eyes to buy herself more time. The key to his destruction, she felt, rested in resisting as long as possible. In selling a moment he wasn’t sure he would get to experience. “So, step one involved divestment. Of clothing, specifically.”

“I can get naked,” he offered quickly. Not that it would be hard: he’d only bothered to put on his boxers. 

“For what purpose?” She tried to sound confused. “This won’t take long.” 

“Take your time,” he said generously. A benevolent king on a golden throne. 

“In my _plans_,” she stressed, “you’d be on your back.”

“In bed?”

“In bed. Where I am right now. A pillow behind your head so you could see the room.” 

“Where would you be?”

“Once I grabbed my vibrator, you mean?”

She kept her eyes open just long enough to see his jaw clench shut. He _hated_ her vibrator—at least when she used it alone. An echo of his alpha’s instinctive insistence that she experience pleasure at his hands and no one else’s. 

_“If you throw that away, you’re banned from my apartment.”_

_He’d beaten her home. They’d exchanged keys the week before and he’d promised to cook her homemade pasta. Only she’d forgotten what she’d left on the couch. She’d walked in to catch him glaring at her vibrator in disgust, his wishes vividly clear. _

_“I wouldn’t do that,” he grumbled. “Just don’t like it.” _

_She arched an eyebrow. “Jealous?” _

_She hadn’t expected him to nod. But he did. “Yeah. Makes my alpha…” he trailed off, shaking his head when he could find the right words. “Jealous, yeah.”_

_It was oddly endearing: the same Ben that confessed to once bodily removing an inept intern from his lab, the same Ben whose size preemptively cleared a path in a crowd, and the same, same Ben that made her toes curl during sex was intimidated by a hunk of phallic plastic. _

_“If it makes you feel any better,” she confessed, “I think of you when I use it.” _

_Some of the darkness left his face. “Yeah?”_

_She swept by him on her path to the kitchen, but paused to kiss his cheek. Her lips lingered on his skin. “Yeah.”_

“Why would you need your vibrator,” the Ben of the present growled, “when my dick is three feet away on the bed?” 

“For such a smart man, you really do struggle with the concept of revenge.”

His snarl was playful, but just as loud as the real thing. 

She took stock of the moment. His hands refused to stay idle: they pawed at the sheets, quietly frantic for distraction. Whatever control stopped him from snatching away her blanket was clearly wearing thin. He wanted to hold her. 

“So you use your vibrator,” he gritted. “What next?”

It was getting harder to feign even a passing interest in sleep. If Ben weren’t so freshly agitated, he’d probably be able to smell the dampness between her legs. She loved him like this: needy and wanting and barely contained. It reminded her of his rut. 

“I’d make myself wet.” As soon as she said it, he bit back a whimper. “I think I’d let you watch.”

“You wouldn’t come.” _You wouldn’t dare._

“I might.” _I wouldn’t_. 

“You wouldn’t.” He sounded less sure than before, though he did his best to hide it. “You’d save it. For me. You know I’d—that that’s what I want.” 

“Maybe that’s the point. To deny you what you want.” 

“Fuck, Rey.” And he clearly couldn’t take it any longer: he stopped fussing with the covers and grabbed her instead—molding himself to the side of her body. He buried his face against her shoulder, his lips lowering to her gland and giving it one firm swipe of his tongue. It made her shiver. “Can you show me how you’d do it?” 

Her hand twitched, eager to comply. She knew how easily her fingers would slide through her lips. Still, she made herself murmur, “Use your imagination.” 

Judging from the way he moaned and started attacking her neck, he did. 

_That is…distracting_. “If you were good, I’d let you lick me clean.”

He rocked his erection against her hip. “I’d be good.”

His eagerness made her smile. “You can’t possibly promise that.” 

“I like licking you clean,” he lifted his mouth to say, and it didn’t matter that she’d heard it before or that she’d said worse: her face heated. It was the way he said it. Like there could be no simpler truth in the world. “I _want_ your taste in my mouth. So yes. I can promise I’d be good.” 

She didn’t doubt it. Once motivated, Ben was a freight train uninterested in brakes.

His licks turned more intentional. Calculated. Instead of a constant barrage, he slowed until each drag of his tongue felt ageless. He’d learned what she liked best and he teased it—the wet, sloppy sucks that always made her squirm mixed in with lighter kisses. 

She knew a tactic when she felt one. If she didn’t want to lose, she needed to change the game. 

She’d…she’d pin him. He wouldn’t anticipate it. She’d pin him and rub her cunt against his dick and then she’d smile when he begged to rip her underwear. On her knees it wouldn’t be hard to lift up and away whenever he tried to lift up and _in_ and he’d thrown his tie nearby, hadn’t he? It had been a few days since she’d watched the YouTube tutorial, but she could approximate the steps. How hard were knots, anyway? She’d only been tying her shoes since forever and—actually, no, that was a terrible comparison. She’d need something stronger if she wanted to strap him to the bed. 

Or maybe not. Maybe she saved the knots for another day and kissed him gently, kissed him slow. Left the tie on the floor so he could watch and so she could watch him watching and when he pleaded, she’d pull her panties to the side and sink down. 

After that, they would…

_Fuck,_ her omega piped up. _You’d fuck._

_Alpha would take such good care of us._

Waving a fond goodbye to her brief foray into acting, she moved quickly up and forward—

But not quickly enough. Ben seized her, catching her hips. 

“I thought you were sleepy,” he said against her ear, darkly gleeful. “I heard the words ‘no, thanks.’” 

The odds were never good when it came to escaping an alpha’s hold, but she gave herself the best possible chance and relaxed. Ben was difficult to surprise. Her best hope lay in distraction. “What makes you think I didn’t mean them?” 

“My nose.” 

Damn. “Well, you were licking me. My neck. I can’t…it’s—that’s like an involuntary response. Like my mouth watering when I smell fried onions. Or how your phone mysteriously rings whenever Poe brings up karaoke. Or—”

He bit her shoulder. “Can I touch these?” He cupped the curve of her breasts, his thumbs lightly sweeping. 

Still tender enough that each touch tugged at her clit. She hissed softly. “Gentle,” she warned.

“I promise,” he breathed. “I promise, I promise.”

He used the back of his knuckles, murmuring praises as he kissed her shoulders. _So good. So soft. Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen. Perfect, Rey. I love them._

_When did this go so awry?_ she almost said, because she was supposed to be talking, ordering, straddling—the giver of pleasure instead of its receiver. But she was silent, instead. Basking. To be the focus of any alpha’s attention was difficult for her omega to process, but it was different with Ben. She didn’t feel trapped, not even in his grip. He held her like she was precious—not because she was breakable, but because she was something he cherished. The truth was he’d said he loved her a thousand times before the restaurant. She felt it when he held her hand in the grocery store parking lot, on the walk to the library, in the car. He’d said it when he listened about her parents. He’d said it just by being there, by _wanting_ to be there—by making her feel like he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. 

She wasn’t tired anymore. 

He didn’t try to stop her when she finally moved—turning to catch his mouth with her own, kissing him until he gasped and fell backward to the sheets. 

“Please,” he groaned when she stroked him, “Inside you, I want—”

She hushed him. “I know.” 

She barely had the heart to tease. He was already leaking. Sensitive. He bit his lip when she rubbed the head of his cock through her folds, smearing them both with wetness. Then he was _there_, stretching her, the tip of him sitting snug inside. There was always a moment, no matter how wet or ready she felt, where she wondered if she could take him all. Nevermind that she’d done it before or that she’d taken his knot—the stretch stole her breath, every new push down or thrust up inciting fresh doubt. 

_Too big. He won’t…_ “I—”

“You can.” A deep command. Firm and alpha. 

And she nodded, half-laughing because she could. She had. She loved it. 

They found a rhythm, their gasps and groans lapsing into focused silence. She rode him—one hand on the headboard, Ben’s face against her tits, both of them sweating until their skin was slick and the tightness in her belly coiled and coiled, fueled when he reached down, rubbing her, letting her grind. 

“Rey, you—” He squeezed his eyes shut, as if in pain. “I’m going to…I can’t—” 

She knew what he was really asking and gave him his wish: she came gasping, her cunt tight enough to slow Ben’s thrusts and then he was pulling her down, biting the curve of her shoulder, and gritting out her name. 

She collapsed on his chest, dazed enough to forget he couldn’t knot her, not outside of her heat. 

They pretended, anyway. Ben’s hands kept her anchored in place, his hips still lightly thrusting in a mimicry of rut. She basked and remembered what it felt like to be pumped full. 

She must have dozed. She woke to a warm wet washcloth and Ben’s gentle urging _Rey, go pee, you fucking hate it if I don’t make you, I know you’re tired, I’m sorry, you can hate me now, just go_. And she did, she hated him a little for making her move, but the bed was warm when she returned and his arms reached out to hold her. 

She hoped she dreamed good dreams. She hoped Ben did, too. 

“I love you,” he whispered, and then again. Just because he could. 

Her hand rested on his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. And we're done. :D
> 
> Thank you for sticking around! 
> 
> Come say hi on Twitter! I'm [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig).

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up being too wordy and ridiculous to tack onto the original story, so I'm making it its own thing. If you've been waiting for this, thank you for your patience. My goal is to finish it up ASAP. <3
> 
> I'm [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig) on Twitter. Come by and say hi!


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